Tag: FLR

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How I should be

Got home Saturday after three days on the road. I love these trips, but the getting there and back is grueling. Before the sun went down, Belle was already saying I needed to go back in to the steel. Not until Sunday, though.

Sunday morning, she was up early getting the boy ready to leave for camp. I wanted some fun, but it wasn’t to be. By midmorning, I had the Steelheart back in place. But, you may be thinking, didn’t I have a new Jail Bird waiting for me? Yes, I did, but it wasn’t right. I ordered it with a security screw and it came with a hole for a regular little padlock. I tried it with the one and only little padlock we still have from the old CB6K days but it was one of those black Masterlocks with the plastic shell and it made the unit too bulky. It was quite visible poking through my sweats. Also, I’m not a big fan of the way the lock sits sideways on the JB.

I don’t really consider the screw omission to be Mature Metal’s fault entirely. The order started as an email exchange about getting a new base ring, the more observant of you might remember, and it evolved into a whole new device after several messages sent back and forth. We ended up using a non-standard channel for the order and they missed a detail. Had it gone through their site, I’m sure it would have been right. In any event, it’s going back to get screwed.

By Sunday night, Belle and I had found some personal time. Naked, I laid close to her with my head down on her chest while she fingered my sack and basically drove me crazy. She asked me how I was doing being back in and I, in that state with that sensation, would have told her anything. I said I was glad to be back in. I was happier that way. I told her how I never got used to having a normal penis during the trip. Each time I took a leak it felt weird handling a soft flap of meat rather than a steel tube. And in the morning, the unencumbered erection was a distraction. I felt like I was cheating somehow. It was wrong. She told me I was suited to being locked up. That it was how I should be. Then she let me get her off.

When it was over, I was amazingly turned on. The tube throbbed with beat of my heart, bit into my nascent erection and pulled on my nuts. I wanted…something. Not to be out, but to be out. Not to fuck her, but to fuck her. Not to come, but to come. All the conflicting and otherwise contradictory urges that come with the denial of orgasm.

I’m on my third day back in the steel and it feels like I was never out. Belle’s right. This is how I should be.

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Fireworks

So it’s true, sports fans. The bunny did come over the holiday weekend. Once on Thursday inside Belle and once again the next day all over my stomach (with Belle in attendance, however).

She let me out in the morning and yet again chose not to get herself off on the penis and opted for my fingers. Once done, she let me go inside and have at it. I tried so hard to make it last. I felt very confident that I would. That I was in control and would have enough time to really enjoy the old-fashioned sex, but my mind started inserting images and thoughts into my head. The fact that Belle hadn’t needed the penis to get off and that it was usually locked up, forgotten, and unnecessary. That it and my ability to control it was a shadow of what once was since, of course, I have essentially no control over it at all anymore. That lack of control is what makes it such a worthless object for Belle. There’s really no way to stop the orgasm. I can’t stop it. It’s coming already…right now…there. Done. Well less than a minute and I was copiously pumping nearly six weeks of pent up ejaculate into Belle. It felt like it was over before it even started.

The next morning Belle wasn’t really interested in anything but allowed me to jack off next to her in bed. Again, I wanted it to last so I could at least really enjoy the build up to an actual climax as opposed to the stopping and retreat that normally happens when I have access to the penis. And again, while I lasted longer than before, it was over so soon. Just a hair trigger it all that remains (at least so soon after I get out).

Friday night, she asked me how I felt. Pretty flat, to be honest. Orgasm is a massive let-down now, though at least I’ve already started to feel the build-up again. The floppy-floppy weirdness of the penis will wear off in a few days (along with the odd jellyfish-like gelatinous nature of my nuts – they’re so much more orderly when trapped by a steel ring).

Next we’re in an interesting period. The boy and I head out later this week to go camping on the west coast. We won’t be home until the 21st. Based on the conditions we’ll be in and the lack of essential privacy, I won’t be able to go with the Steelheart on. It needs to much hygienic maintenance. But, if the new Jail Bird arrives in time, it’s possible I could wear that. It wouldn’t be to keep me from doing anything since the lack of hygiene privacy will mean no masturbatory privacy, either. It’s really more about the control thing. Even when it’s not necessary, it’s there. All the time, it’s there. That’s what we both want. But, if the JB doesn’t land before I leave, it’ll just mean one or the other will go on as soon as I get home.

Now that I’ve come (and assuming she won’t let me do it again before I leave), I’m thinking about the next time it might happen. Belle likes to attach these occurrences to holidays or holiday-like events. My birthday is close to Labor Day, so that’s a possibility. In mid-October is our anniversary. Closer in, there’s a couple of weeks here and there when both kids will be absent at camp or visiting relatives. Those are also viable options. Or, since she’s reading this and knows I know how it works, she might skip over all those options entirely. Or she may not care and pick one anyway. In either event, I won’t know very far in advance and will have little choice.

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In response

Reader BT left the following monster comment on my last post. So monster, in fact, I decided the reply should get a post of its own.

I have followed your blog since it was fairly new and I have enjoyed it a great deal. Mostly because it isn’t focused on wank-fantasy stuff, but rather is much more about the day-to-day reality of embracing this alternative form of relationship for your marriage. This has made your blog a shining star for bringing this alternative life style out of the musty dark shadows of pornography and into the light of day, and hopefully a little closer to acceptance by non-participants.

I am a shining star, aren’t I? And adorably fluffy.

I was surprised at how quickly you and Belle took to the proposed arragement in the beginning, but until recently it seemed to me that there was still something incomplete about it. Something not quite fully formed. And that thing was that Thumper was still pretty much looking at the whole arragement (or at least writng about it) from the point of view of “What is this doing to Thumper?”

I’ve heard this criticism before. My response is that this blog is, among other things, a journal of what I feel and experience. I honestly don’t know what I’d write about half the time if “What is this doing to Thumper?” was off the table. If I knew what this was doing to Belle, I’d write about that, but I can only guess what’s happening in her head and heart. Also, remember that this blog is one of the ways I communicate with Belle. She expects me to say what I’m feeling.

With regard to how quickly we embraced our current lifestyle, it didn’t feel all that quick to me. We were at a place in our relationship when we were very open to new things and chastity was something I was very interested in (suddenly and unexpectedly), but how that morphed into the D/s dynamic we have today seemed to take a while. Even now, I’m not sure it’s done evolving.

But your most recent posts demonstrate that you have passed a kind of milestone at some point. I was very pleased and happy for you and Belle when you wrote the following:

“I’ll make sure her favorite vibrator makes its way into her suitcase. If she’s going to be so relaxed anyway, it’s better for me to know she’s able to take advantage of the opportunity. Even if I don’t get to participate.”

Although you rarely refer to yourself as such I hope you wouldn’t consider it an insult if I catagorized you as a “submissive male” while acknowledging that the ways and means of practicing male submission are as varied as there are couples. However there is one essential element common to all of them in my opinion: The focus of the submissive on bringing his Top pleasure and support even if this means not getting to do exactly what the submissive would like to do

I have no problem being called a submissive male. And I agree, what that means is quite varied. I know that now. I didn’t understand it three years ago. Back then, I thought all this BDSM stuff was quite orderly and logical. It’s not. It’s infinitely more organic than I expected.

So sure, I’m submissive. But I’m not a robot. Call me submissive-ish if you want, but I can’t always and forever only think of Belle’s pleasure over mine. Well, “pleasure” is the wrong word. “Satisfaction” might be better. I get satisfaction though her pleasure. I get satisfaction by being actively denied sexual release by her. I get satisfaction knowing that she’s enjoying (in whatever way she wants) my submission to her and how that affects me. Where our dynamic breaks down is when I get no feedback from her. When my submission turns into background clutter of daily life. It’s hard living how I do, though it’s enjoyably hard when she’s an active participant in the dynamic. When she’s not, it’s just hard. And then it’s depressing. And that’s not good.

This quote above shows that your focus has movied beyond yourself and you are begining to prioritize Belle’s comfort and pleasure above your own. And this no doubt because you derive your pleasure from knowing that she is pleased, which is the essence of a submissive’s focus in a relationship.

I do prioritize her pleasure and comfort, but I can only do that when I feel she’s prioritized me and our relationship in her life. I don’t disagree with what you’re saying, but I reject the concept that a sub should totally subjugate their feelings. This is a relationship. There must be emotional exchange underneath the D/s layer.

And once that bar has been crossed the following statement doesn’t come to me as much of a surprise at all:

Penises, it turns out, can be trained.”

Which is absolutely true. Somewhere in the makeup of a sub male’s brain some little bit that used to cause the penis to get erect at the mere whisper of a ghost of a chance of getting some action finally learns that THIS male isn’t in control of THAT outcome. And if the current situation is one in which there isn’t likely to be any need of an erection, it doesn’t bother with creating one. This is a remarkable phenomnina when you consider it: Essentially the sub male’s brain acknowledges his submissive condition at a very visceral and subconsious level. When that occurs it seems fair to say that the man in question isn’t posing as a submissive, or play acting as a submissive, or taking the submissive role in a scene… he simply IS a submissive (at least in the particular situation.) It has become part of his makup. Part of what and who he is.

I agree. And when it happens, it’s amazing hot and satisfying. When she makes me give her an orgasm and then teases me about how I will receive nothing in return I actually thank her for it. Feeling that way fills me with warmth and comfort and love. It’s fantastic.

Soon after that point the following to also becomes very true:

“I don’t need to be strung up and whipped or tied to the bed all night or facesat until I turn blue to know she cares. Sometimes, all it takes is a few words and a gentle touch.”

I think that the insatiable desire for the kinky stuff is the manifestation of the need to demonstrate to oneself or one’s partner the dominant and submissive nature of the relationship. At some point that is no longer as necessary as it once seemed. In its place is a special sort of intimacy between the sub and his top and a peaceful and contented acceptance of the dynamic by both parties.

Hmm. Perhaps. But for me, I really enjoy being tied up and hurt. I enjoy it a lot. Sometimes the pain she inflicts on me is a demonstration of my submission. When she decides to clamp my nipples out of the blue or smack my nuts around or apply Icy Hot to them. In those cases, whether I want it to happen or not, I accept it because it trips my submissive triggers. However, I really really like pain. I like being flogged and otherwise whipped and beaten and that’s really not about submission. That’s about feeling the wonderful buzz of masochism. The bondage is the same. I like feeling the powerlessness of being bound and abused. I like struggling against it. It turns me on.

I can’t say how these things would feel if I wasn’t a sub because I am, but I know there are dominant types out there who also like pain and bondage. It can’t always be about submission. In any event, while I don’t need her to engage in that kind of activity to make me know she cares, I still crave them. Deeply. That need is a part of me, not us.

I suppose that you may have already figured a lot of this out. But then again maybe you haven’t considered that the three quotations above are interrelated toward a common point. That point being the DS nature of your marriage transforming from a sort of overlay of your relationship with Belle to being an essential part of it.

Our relationship has to work on several levels. It’s not just D/s. But I do agree that we’ve both invested so much psychic energy into our dynamic that its removal would be traumatic for both of us. I’d say it’s integral at this point, though perhaps not essential.

I’d love to hear what your take is on all this. That is how do you see yourself and your marriage as a DS relationship, if you see yourself that way at all? As I mentioned you rarely refer to yourself as a submissive, nor do you refer to your marriage as a DS relationship. And you certainly have never referred to Belle as a Domme or anything like that. And why would you? Who really needs labels? Especially these labels that always seem to conjure up so many negative stereotypes. But at this stage I don’t have any better language to describe it.

The label thing is perhaps the biggest reason I don’t use them that much anymore. Belle doesn’t like being called a Domme and while I don’t have a problem identifying as submissive, I’ve learned there’s a lot of baggage that comes with the term (mostly in the form of what “real” submission is, etc.). I’m not embarrassed by how I am but I am aware that what it means for Belle and I isn’t what it necessarily means for others.

I guess the way I’d summarize this post is by saying I want and need to feel Belle’s satisfaction and pleasure, even if it comes at the expense of my own because, ironically and paradoxically, that gives me satisfaction. But I can’t be expected to live in a way in which neither of us is satisfied. I don’t want to live without sexual stimulation, I just want to live without ever having sexual release. It’s the old “chastity is not celibacy” thing. In the end, no relationship works without an exchange of what the other partner needs, even D/s relationships.

Thanks for your thoughtful comment.

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I neglected to add…

Belle got home late last night and wished me a happy anniversary. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I read the blog,” she said. Ahh, I see. Four weeks. As in, my observation on Saturday that I’ve been locked for four straight weeks today. That anniversary.

And it was, truly, late – a school night, no less – so I didn’t think anything sexual was going to happen. And it didn’t. But even just hearing her acknowledge that my condition was known to her made a difference. That she hadn’t forgotten and, presumably, didn’t take it for granted. I laid next to her in bed, half rolled over on my side, and she left her hand in a spot where she could idly finger the hair just above the penis in its prison while we fell asleep. That minor, intimate contact along with the simple words charged me up. It was enough so that when I woke up this morning with the massively tight tube I didn’t feel grumpy or annoyed. I felt contained and comforted. I don’t need to be strung up and whipped or tied to the bed all night or facesat until I turn blue to know she cares. Sometimes, all it takes is a few words and a gentle touch.

Regarding the the thing I neglected to add as referred to in the title of this post, I forgot to mention in my previous missive that working out has become a sure-fire way of avoiding the dreaded chastity insomnia. I am trying like hell now to work out every day, not just because I crave it and want to feel good, but I’ve noticed that no amount of hormonal blood level can stop me from sleeping on the days I either see the trainer or run for three miles.

Friday afternoon, for example, I wanted to run badly, but the kids and I went out to see a movie and have dinner. We didn’t get home until after sunset and while I wanted to, I didn’t put the shoes on and take off. Subsequently, I was restlessly tossing around until after 2:30 AM. Not sure when I finally slept, but I knew as I laid there staring at the ceiling and doing everything except looking at porn (which is what I really wanted to do) that had I exerted myself, I would have been in dreamland.

Speaking of dreams, I’ve had several recently in which the chastity device was featured. I can’t recall the details, of course, but in one, the device just fell off of me. I’ve had that happen in dreams before and each time I remember feeling like I’m going to be in trouble. Try as I might, the device simply won’t go back together and I’m left with it in pieces in my hands. Other times I suddenly find myself in a situation where the device is visible in front of other people. I’m either all of a sudden naked or it’s out of my pants or something weirdly dreamy like that. At least one dream involved a urinal and other people. Not sure how, exactly, but the device was discovered.

Speaking of devices, I’ve ordered a new Jail Bird. There’s not a thing wrong with the Steelheart (obviously since I’ve been in it for a month) but sometimes a boy just wants some variety. For those keeping score at home, the previous Jail Bird went permanently out of commission when I accidentally snapped the post off the A-ring in an attempt to make it less constricting. I was going to just send the cage back and get a new ring, but I can’t find the damned thing. It’s got to be somewhere, but it’s not in any of the little hiding places I’ve used before. I suspect I got clever in where I put it but too clever to remember where that was. So, in any event, a new one has been ordered. I went with a slightly larger A-ring this time and opted for the oval option. We’ll see how that works. Expect a full report when it arrives.

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Pillow talk

Belle and I had one of those checking-in moments the other night. She knows how desperate I am right now and wanted to make sure I wasn’t going off the rails. Usually, this starts by her asking me how I’m doing and me answering in a non-verbal grunt and shrug kind of thing. This from the guy who always says communication is so important in our kind of relationship.

She teased more out of me (so to speak). I told her I was fine. Not GREAT. Just fine. I told her how horny I was and she once again reminded me that I had only been locked up for a week. A mere flicker of a butterfly’s eyelid for me. Do butterflies have eyelids? It matters not. You get the gist.

I may have asked how long she meant to keep me in. Usually, it’s fairly easy for me to see the milestones upon which I get out. I can’t see one of those before mid-July at this point. She told me she was thinking of letting me out for Father’s Day. Honestly, I had forgotten all about Father’s Day. If I hadn’t, I might have dismissed it since it was relatively so soon after Memorial Day (about three weeks). It’s not always easy to know what “getting out” means. Do I also get to come? Or is it just freedom?

In my somewhat needy and totally horned-out condition, I admitted I didn’t want out. I didn’t want the device off and I didn’t want to come. OK, accuse me of bottom topping. Go ahead. I’ll wait…

Humming…

But it’s true. Yeah, my body is saying it wants out and wants to come, but my soul wants to stay in and be denied the pleasure. Even on Father’s Day. Especially on Father’s Day. The denial is so much more potent when it happens even when a reasonable person would expect otherwise. It’s best when it’s capricious and unfair and in no way respectful of what’s “right”.

What I want more than anything else is her. Not the porn, not the stories, not anything but her. To feel her writhe at my touch and hear her breathe fast and ragged before she finally tenses up in orgasm. That’s what I want. Not freedom. Not access. Certainly not orgasm. I have that feeling in my loins of a swollen prostate and I clutch and claw at the steel tube desperately wanting to get at its contents and I end up grinding into the mattress and being too distracted to sleep, but I also don’t want it to stop. Not ever.

I can’t tell if after all this time she’s thinking about letting me out because it’s what she wants or if it’s what she thinks I want. We seem to be past the point of her showing any kind of interest in the penis as a sexual object , though I supposed she might still want to feel it inside her. Maybe even wants to see it flopping around in the air. I don’t know. We kinda fell asleep after all that (which is to say, she fell asleep and I laid there soaking in my swirling hormonal caffeine).

Yesterday, I was grumpy at the end of the day. More annoying life stuff that I had misinterpreted or forgotten about or whatever. We were snappish at each other. Not sure how much of that was the hormones talking. It does manifest that way sometimes. I desperately wanted to defuse the situation so, when she came to bed, I offered to rub her feet with the lotion. I had hoped it would end in sex, but it didn’t. Just her feeling really nice (which is good, too). I again failed to fall asleep before 2:00. Still too wound up.

Belle leaves in a few days for a trip with some girlfriends. Yes, the kind of trip where in the porn stories the wife tells her friends about her husband’s locked penis. Just the girls and some wine in a quaint setting. I hope to be able to get her off before she leaves. If not, I’ll makes sure her favorite vibrator makes its way into her suitcase. If she’s going to be so relaxed anyway, it’s better for me to know she’s able to take advantage of the opportunity. Even if I don’t get to participate.

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Finding myself

So I’m tending the porn farm and come across this (obviously, that’s a NSFW link there). And I’m thinking, Daaaaamn. That’s fucking hot. Then I think, Wait a minute. Is that…?

Turns out, I had seen that picture before. Right here. It’s me in the Jail Bird. As a guy who puts dirty pictures of himself on the internet, I do, from time to time, find those pictures regurgitated by others on the endless pornographic rotisserie that is Tumblr (usually this one, though). It’s to be expected. I’m not in any way disturbed by it (though a simple shout out of where it came from would be nice).

The thing I find funny about this is that I didn’t even recognize myself at first. And to be honest, the thing that tipped me off that it was me wasn’t the penis or the device, it was my hand in the background. Then I noticed the way the hair was clipped and how the nuts hung and it all clicked. I didn’t remember the photo since it wasn’t HNT or anything, just a quick pic demonstrating how the JB makes the penis shift into its off-center cage.

Speaking of the Jail Bird, I do admit to liking how that cage looks. There’s something about being able to see the penis behind bars (and then pushing out between the spaces in them) that really flips my switch. Alas, the JB’s A-ring post is broken (and the ring was always a bit too small anyway) so it’s not available to me. I asked Belle if I could send it back to be fixed but she prefers the Steelheart. The fact that it’s almost the exact opposite in the way it totally hides the penis. Out of sight. Gone. She doesn’t seem to like seeing it anymore. I guess that’s how it should be. How I want it. But still, I’d like to wear a real cage every now and again.

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Twice is not enough

Memorial Day weekend came and so did I. Twice.

Belle didn’t let me out of the Steelheard until the morning after we arrived (Saturday), but after having me get her off with my mouth and fingers (no penis, again), she let me fuck her until I came. It was one of those super intense orgasms that you get after an extended denial that wasn’t bad but wasn’t exactly good, either. Somehow anticlimactic. By 3:00 that afternoon I wanted to go again but I had to wait until the next morning when she let me fuck her once more (but with her top on). That one was all about me (which I’m not a huge fan of) but it was a better orgasm.

Usually, twice in quick succession like that would spend me for a while. Monday, though, Belle wanted me back in (all of 48 hours out) and by the time we got home that night I was as horny as if it never happened. So horny, in fact, that it almost became a chastity-induced night of no sleep. As it was, I only slept for about three hours. That made the trainer especially fun the next morning.

She let me get her off again this morning. I was up on my hands and knees rubbing my face against her breasts while she reached under and gently caressed my balls. The steel tube pressurized completely while my fingers found her wet snatch. It was all over far too quickly. She held my hand against her, my finger curled up toward her G spot, and she came intensely yet quietly. After a respectable amount of basking time for her, I grabbed her and held on, pressing the tight tube into her. Fuuuuuck, I’m horny.

“You haven’t even been in there a week, Thumper.”

Whimper.

I know that, of course, but tell it to my body. I can’t remember ever having two orgasms leave me essentially where I was before they happened like this.

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Aaaand, we’re back.

Got back from my trip early. I wasn’t sure I could take that long in the wilderness (I was an hour from the nearest highway) two weeks was too ambitious. Maybe next time.

As expected, my privacy was very limited. There were several of us sharing a remote cabin, so I didn’t even have the luxury of a tent wall. We did have one of those pop-up camp showers, but even then it was just a tall tent with a door that threatened to flap open in a stiff breeze. Except for the random morning squeeze in my sleeping bag, I left the penis alone while there. I did have two hotel nights on each end and that first night was incredible. I was as close to the edge I could possible be. There were times when the slightest touch would have set it off. My friend (the one who knows) was surprised that I could masturbate without orgasm. As if it was impossible. Fact is, that’s pretty much the only way I do it now. The best possible outcome would be to feel as I did that night. With the penis all hard and quivering and slimy with its own leakage, my balls all tight and swollen and ready to pump…but nothing else. No actual relief. In any event, my ability now to slice the space between stimulation and completion into smaller and smaller units is, when I really concentrate, pretty amazing. Ironic that being denied orgasm puts you so much more in touch with how it happens.

On the way back, though, I barely touched it. Something about getting closer to home and likely lock-up and Belle’s control made it seem less appealing. First thing I did when getting to my room was to strip down since I do so love being naked and there were no opportunities to be that way on the trip, but that didn’t lead to the orgy of self abuse I had on the first night. Sometimes, I even had a hard time keeping it up.

Upon my return, it didn’t take Belle too long to tell me she wanted the penis back in its home. She said I might get a “holiday squirt” this weekend, but not with any certainty. I locked myself up yesterday as soon as I was done with the trainer. She patted my crotch when she got home and told me I was a good boy for making myself the way she prefers me to be. She likes that she doesn’t have to tell me to lock up, only that she wants me that way, and I do it willingly. After ten days, I admit to wanting it as much as she did.

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Unnecessary hardness

The conversation with my friend lasted past midnight. By the time I got home, it was 12:30 and I was exhausted. I set up Belle’s coffee for the morning and plopped into bed. And laid there. And laid there some more. I cursed my hormonal state and tried to think about things that usually make me go to sleep, but no dice. Every time I moved, I could feel the penis shift or graze the sheets and the small flame in my brain would flare briefly and refuse to extinguish. Two o’clock ticked by. Three o’clock. I may have fallen asleep sometime between 4:00 and 5:00, but it was useless restless sleep and Belle was up around 5:15. That was that. Just another night in the life of the habitually denied.

Yesterday was awful. I had the trainer at 7:00 and it was the worst session since I started going. Even worse than the first few when I was certain death was descending upon me. I struggled through that and the rest of the day, slogging zombie-like though meetings and the young one’s choir concert until bedtime. As exhausted as I was, it was our last night together for two weeks. The penis was out. I was super horny. I had high hopes that she’d let me come. Unfortunately, I was grumpy.

Of course, it had been nearly 40 hours since I last slept, so the random bullshit of life was annoying me and Belle was spending a lot of time doing small things elsewhere while I was thinking about using toothpicks to keep my eyelids open. By the time she got to bed, my tone was decidedly un-bunny-like. Thankfully, she persisted until I snapped out of it. Going to bed mad that night would have created very bad juju indeed.

After some talking about my trip and a few other things (like my friend, whose new insight into our relationship she didn’t know about until then), she pulled up her top and told me I could give her an orgasm. I rubbed my face against her breasts in my sleep-deprived stupor, feeling her nipples graze against my nose and lips. Heaven.

“How do you want to come?” I asked dreamily.

“In the usual manner.”

“The penis is right here,” I pushed its hardness against her thigh to help demonstrate its proximity and preparedness.

“I know.”

“…” Gah!

“I’ve come to appreciate your other talents.”

So that’s that then. I was there, hard and unlocked, with my wife whose historical preferences strongly leaned toward penetrative pleasure, and she was choosing my fingers. My built-in equipment was redundant and not preferred.

“And you’re not going to come.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. And I don’t want you coming while you’re gone.”

“Oh. I was sure you were going to let me come tonight.”

“I know.”

So then I got her off. The penis was throbbing but the best it got was rubbing up against her leg while my fingers danced across her clitoris and my tongue flicked across her nipple. It was painful. As her desire rose and her hips moved against my hand, palpable sensory phantoms of the penis sinking into her hot wetness flashed like bombs in my head. I wanted in her so bad. I wanted to fuck. The craving for an orgasm was ringing though me. The lizard of my sexuality roared in its cage but the rabbit was in control and, though sweating profusely, made sure I performed my part of our sexual dynamic so that Belle’s satisfaction was maximized.

After she came and while she was basking in the afterglow, I moaned pitifully with the stupid stiff penis quivering against her.

“That’s not going to move me, you know.”

“I really want to be inside you. I really want to come.”

“You’re not going to.”

After a few quiet moments, she got up to use the bathroom and left me to clutch the unnecessary hardness. I laid across the warmth of the spot where she just came trying to catch any lingering energy she may have left behind.

“Move over.”

I did and then moved back, clutching her from behind and holding her and smelling her and needing her.

“I don’t want to you staying up all night tomorrow looking at porn. You need to rest before your long drive.”

“But I like porn.”

“I know.”

I pressed into her more intently. Jesus god, the desire was incredible within me.

“You can stay there as long as you’re not annoying. If you don’t behave, I’m sending you to the other side of the bed.”

I stopped squirming as best I could. We laid there, breathing together. I was still raging inside, but the massive bulk of sleeplessness was crushing my desires, compressing them into diamonds.

“Thank you, Belle Fille. Thank you for giving me what I need instead of what I ask for.”

“I know you, Thumpie. Good night.”

“Good night.”

And I slept.

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Triple play

Belle gave me the key this morning which was a bit of a shock. I didn’t think she’d let me have it until tonight for some reason. The unexpected freedom meant I could stroke the penis while tending to the porn farm (where, by the way, I found out I couldn’t queue more than 301 images at a time). There was some dribbling but nothing approaching orgasm.

Being out and totally unencumbered is an odd feeling after sporting steel for so long. I’ve said in the past how it seems to fuse to my body and become part of it as opposed to a separate object. At least, that’s how it feels when I’m in the right place and enjoying it. Being out this morning left me feeling…well, naked. As I was putting the Steelheart away, I found an old three piece triple cock ring (kind of like this one) and decided to put it on. It’s not a long term item since the ring that goes around the penis shaft is just a little too small when the penis gets stiff, but it felt better having some metal around me (even if popping my nuts through the rings caused nuclear powered winces).

Getting dressed, I decided to go commando. It’s a treat I don’t often get with the device because it needs some support. I find freeballing for too long causes irritation around the ring, but I wasn’t wearing heavy steel today so I went for it. The unexpected consequence was a riot of sensation where there’s usually very little. The cock ring makes the penis sit up and out more than it would normally and that in turn causes it come into more frequent contact with the inside of my jeans. Along with the penis’ newly hatched sensitivity after three weeks in the tube, walking around has become an invigorating activity, to say the least, and has made me thankful for my untucked shirttails.